It went on for a long while, the man and the horse turning together, the rhythmic beat of hoofs over well-packed dirt, the sharp crack of the whip whenever the beat faltered. The horse’s body was wet with sweat, and white lather was heavy about the bridle leathers and the corners of his mouth. But his eyes, now dulled with exhaustion, never left the man in the center of the ring.

Pitch said, “Tom’s way of breaking an animal isn’t a pretty sight. Shall we go?”

Steve shook his head, but said nothing. He wondered how long the horse had been running about the corral before they arrived.

The tired animal stumbled. The long bull whip cracked and the hard leather end caught the horse on his haunches. Snorting, he regained his stride and ran still faster about the ring. And all the time the man pivoted with him, bull whip raised and ready.

Would Tom never stop? Steve asked himself. How long did this go on? The horse was beaten now! What more did Tom expect? What satisfaction was he getting out of this driving, driving, driving?

And still the beat of hoofs went on, echoing more often now to the sharp, staccato cracks of the bull whip.

Steve felt he could take no more of it. He turned and found Pitch watching him. Pitch nodded and his hand went to the key in the car’s ignition switch. But before he had reached it there came a sudden end to the sound of hoofs and whip. Deadening silence settled about the corral. Together, Steve and Pitch looked back at the scene they had just turned away from.

Tom was approaching the horse, the lead rope sliding through his fingers. The horse stood there trembling, his eyes alive with hate. Tom grabbed the bridle, then signaled to one of the men sitting on the fence. The man jumped down and, picking up a blanket, walked over and put it upon the back of the horse. Then Tom and the horse were alone in the corral again.

Steve saw Tom move to one side of the horse, carrying the reins. The horse sidestepped uneasily, his eyes following the bull whip Tom held coiled in his hand. Then, faster than Steve thought it possible for a man of Tom’s weight to move, he was on the horse’s back. Steve believed the horse was too tired to put up a fight, but he’d never seen a wild horse broken before.

The horse bucked, coming down with rigid forelegs. Up and down, twisting and turning, he flung himself about the corral. And Tom, his long legs wrapped securely about the horse’s girth, stayed with him, flaying the heavy handle of the bull whip hard against the heaving body.